Of Dust and Devils
by MikeyKratos
Summary: Dante and Vergil had always struggled to get by, scarce work and the lack of proper huntsman licenses made sure of that. Throw some bad spending habits into the mix, and you've got yourself a recipe for financial disaster. That all changes one night though, when the brothers get an unexpected visitor that sets both of them on the path to greatness.
1. Prologue: Lost Legends

Prologue: Lost Legends

Legends. Tales of bygone eras and ancient heroes, scattered across the sands of time. Stories passed from generation to generation of what is, what was, and what will come to be. Some remain unchanged through countless centuries, while others become distorted, or are even forgotten altogether. Indeed, it is quite rare to find one who remembers the dawn of Remnant…

And even rarer to find one who remembers it correctly.

In the beginning, the world of Remnant was hollow. Devoid of life and completely barren, save for the ashes and dust that had remained from an even older, unknowable age. From the dust rose Mankind, desperately trying to find a foothold in an increasingly hostile and desolate world. And from the ashes came the Grimm: Monsters whose sole purpose seemed to be the eradication of all life, and the returning of Man to the void. But no matter how fearsome these beasts were, their prey had something that they did not: Cunning. With their cleverness, they harvested resources with which they forged tools to create and weapons to destroy. They built walls to defend, homes to protect…

And Kingdoms to rule.

Vale.

Mistral.

Vacuo.

Mantle.

These four Kingdoms, though different in many ways, provided solace and security to all. They unified Mankind and allowed them a chance to grow their strength.

And with time, Mankind grew powerful. Powerful enough to not have to fear the creatures of darkness. Powerful enough to face them instead. And face them they did with steel in their hands, fire in their hearts, and their Auras burning bright.

Gone was the age of survival, and the age of warriors began.

And many warriors there were, each one walking different paths and honing different disciplines. Some dedicated the entirety of their training to a singular weapon, seeking to hone their skills with it to perfection. Some sought the use of modern technologies, using their advanced understanding of science to its fullest potential. Some required naught but their flesh, blood, and aura to slay those who would threaten Mankind. And some especially rare and powerful warriors could wipe out entire armies of Grimm…

With naught but a single glance.

But among those warriors, there was one who was exceptionally unique. Not because of his skill in combat, though he took to all forms of it almost effortlessly, but because of his rather peculiar origins. You see, this warrior was not born of the light that humanity had brought to Remnant, but of the shadows that pervaded its darkest corners.

Instead of unleashing his wrath on Mankind however, he saw something in them that his brethren lacked, and chose to fight alongside them rather than against them. And fight he did for years, decades even. He fought until the light of the age of warriors that seared all those who would stand in Mankind's way to ashes finally began to dwindle. And then, when almost all corners of the world were conquered, when Mankind had seemingly triumphed over their age-old enemies…

He vanished without a trace.

The reason for his sudden departure was discussed constantly and curiously, for he gave none whatsoever. Even hundreds of years later, Mankind was still trying to make sense of it. Some treated his disappearance as an act of great humility: He had dedicated almost his entire life to helping those who were supposed to be his sworn enemies and then departed before they had the chance to thank him. Surely, they thought, this was worthy of nothing but praise.

There were others who thought differently, however.

Others saw the warrior's disappearance not as an act of honor, but one of cowardice. For shortly after the warrior had vanished, the Kingdoms of Man were assaulted by wave upon wave of furious Grimm, their numbers and ferocity unlike anything they had ever faced before. Mankind had found itself once again fighting for survival as they were forced to concede more and more land to the creatures of darkness. The conflict lasted for centuries, only slowing when the Four Kingdoms took the shapes they now hold today.

Over time, everything pertaining to the warrior was forgotten: From his valiant deeds in combat to even his very name. And yet…

His legacy still remains.


	2. Chapter One: Seven Hells (Part One)

Chapter One: Seven Hells (Part One)

Fire and smoke were all he could see. Brimstone and ash were all he could smell. The flames nearly scorched his skin, the intensity of their roar almost rooting him to the spot in fear. But he couldn't stop running. Not now, not while **they** were still inside. He was such an idiot! Why did he let his brother run ahead of him like that? Why was he such a coward? If he had just gone with his brother in the first place, all three of them would probably be safe right now. But he didn't. And now for all he knew, both of them could be…

No. He couldn't think like that. Not now. Not while his family was still in danger. Right now, he needed to focus on finding them.

And so, the boy ran deeper into the blaze. He sprinted through hallways, tore through rooms, and vaulted over burning debris. The boy ran deeper and deeper, panic and desperation rising with each turned corner. He navigated this maze of flame for what felt like an eternity before his stride began to falter. The further he went, the more difficult it became to push on. His eyes and lungs began to sting as he breathed deeply of the smoke, and his frantic sprint began to slow.

The boy's vision was clouded by ash and tears, and his body felt as though it were made of lead. He became more and more lightheaded, the lack of oxygen finally taking its toll on his tiny body. His legs felt as though they were screaming at him to stop moving, and soon enough they got their wish. One misplaced step was all it took for the boy to go careening to the ground, coughing and sputtering all the while. He tried his hardest to pick himself up off of the floor, but his limbs refused to comply. All he could bring himself to do was roll over onto his back as he desperately gasped for air. His skin burned. His legs hurt. His vision began to darken. Once more, he desperately tried fighting against the forces of gravity, managing to get to his knees. But he couldn't bring himself to stand no matter how hard he tried. In the midst of his struggling however, he heard something. Something other than the crackling of the flames and the pounding of his own heart. Something that despite the roaring inferno that surrounded him, made his blood run cold. The splintering of wood followed by a cry of pain. He turned slowly towards the direction the noise had come from… And looked into his Mother's eyes.

He felt newfound strength flow through him. The aching of his limbs evaporated. His vision became unclouded. His mind became clear. And yet no matter how hard he tried, he still couldn't move. Instead, he found himself being pulled backwards. Away from the inferno.

And away from his Mother.

He fought against it as hard as he could. He dug his feet into the ground. He tried to pull back, to push forward. He thrashed to and fro, hoping to break free of whatever had hold of him. But it was useless. Slowly but surely he was pulled further and further away. And as his childhood home teetered on the very edge of his vision, as the roaring flames became naught but a distant orange spec in a vast sea of darkness, he screamed.

"MOTHEEEEEEEEEEER!"

* * *

Dante awoke with a start, his brow sweaty and vision darkened. His mind was blank, momentarily overtaken by fear and anger. He needed to calm down, to observe his surroundings the best he could. The red-clad Grimm slayer took a deep, yet almost silent breath through his nose. He exhaled slowly and felt the tension leave his body as he realized he was safe. It took a short while, but eventually the young man came to remember where he was.

"Well… that sucked." Dante sighed, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. He couldn't see anything at the moment, but judging by how far he was leaning back in his chair and how his arms were loosely folded around his chest, he had a pretty good idea of what was going on.

It looked like he'd fallen asleep at the front desk again. Which would've been an issue…

If anyone ever bothered to walk into the shop in the first place.

In all the years Dante and his brother Vergil had owned the "Seven Hells", the young Grimm slayers could count the number of times they'd spoken face-to-face with a client on one hand. It made the small office building feel horribly empty at times. And the lack of furniture didn't help the gloomy atmosphere either. Besides the pool table and jukebox that Dante had bought to keep himself from going mad with boredom, the only other rooms that had been properly furnished were the dining room (that they rarely ever used) and the bedroom that he and his brother shared. The only thing that could even remotely pass as décor were the trophy racks on the wall behind him, which were usually used to hold their weapons when they weren't in use.

Dante sighed again as he brought a gloved hand to his face, removing the magazine he'd let slip from his grasp as he had lost consciousness. He brought it up to his chest and absentmindedly thumbed through its contents, becoming frustrated when he found nothing that interested him.

"Seriously?" He asked, a sour expression on his face. It boggled his mind that a magazine based around the premise of fighting monsters could be so incredibly dull.

With a grunt of annoyance, he tossed his copy of "The Huntsman's Digest" onto the desk in front of him as he put his feet up to relax. His brother would probably chew him out for putting his boots on the table, but as much as he tried to, he couldn't bring himself to care. Dante groggily arched his head backwards to look at his sword, wanting to do something, anything, to help fight off the wave of pure boredom that threatened to swallow him whole.

As his sword's familiar yet impressive shape came into view, Dante couldn't help but grin. Indeed, the "Rebellion" was a sight to behold no matter how many times you laid eyes on it. The human-torso sized claymore had been forged long before he was born from a gray, steel-like alloy that he could never quite put a name to. Its massive double-edged blade made up most of the weapon, never seeming to dull or rust no matter how much abuse he put it through. It was long and heavy as well, sporting two shallow notches near its tip. Though if one were to ask the young Grimm Slayer what his favorite part of the weapon was, his answer would undoubtedly be the sword's heavily stylized cross-guard. The grip and blade of the Rebellion were separated by the form of a skeletal human torso, and Dante loved everything about it. From the ribcage the blade sprouted from, to the horned skull near the grip that screamed in silent rage. And while the actual "guard" part of the cross-guard did not share the same skeletal motif, he found it slick enough for his tastes. There was also a certain fondness he held for the blade, as it was one of the only things his mother had left to him after she had died. He truly treasured the weapon.

And his skill with it showed that.

Like all warriors tended to, Dante considered his weapons to be extensions of his being. You needed to if you ever wanted to truly master one, whether it be a sword or a gun.

And speaking of guns…

Dante's hands drifted to the small of his back, instinctually running his fingers along the grips of his twin pistols. They were a pair of heavily modified M1911s that he had named "Ebony" and "Ivory" after the inlaid portraits in their wooden grips, as well as their respective color schemes. Although their grips were nearly the same, the metal that made up most of Ebony was darker than that of Ivory's, creating an aesthetically pleasing color contrast. Their trigger guards were different as well, Ebony's being more hooked while Ivory's took on more of a rounded shape. And their differences didn't end at appearances either.

While it was true that both Ebony and Ivory functioned as basic run-of-the-mill handguns, both were designed with specific purposes in mind. At the flip of a switch, Ivory's firing mechanism would transform, allowing for controlled three-round bursts as opposed to regular semi-automatic fire. And while Ebony's rate of fire remained unchanged, it wasn't without a few quirks of its own.

The darker pistol's unique nature lied not in its firing mechanism per se but inside the barrel of the gun itself. Its rifling grooves were inlaid with intermittent spaces of fire dust that, when activated, set off explosions of their own. This accelerated the round before it left the barrel, giving it much more stopping power and a higher range than your average .45 ACP bullet. And of course, both Ebony and Ivory could fire any type of Dust round you put into them as well. They were designed to be as versatile and reliable as possible.

Which was probably why they had been so mind-numbingly expensive to create.

Sure, Dante _could_ have bought his own gun parts and built them himself at a fraction of the price, but he didn't have the patience for that. Plus, their creator had been a family friend and had offered a discount on her services for old time's sake.

Which had still ended up halving the money his mother had left for him and his brother, but Dante had seen it as money well spent. A "business investment" he had told Vergil, who nearly had a heart attack when the bill arrived in the mail. He chuckled at the memory as he continued to run his fingers along the grips of his pistols, which were secured to his back via two leather holsters that lied on the outside of his red jacket.

"Don't worry girls, we'll see some action soon enough..." Dante said, seeking to reassure himself as well as his guns. "Just gotta find some work is all."

It was strange though. As those words had left his mouth, Dante couldn't help but feel a bit odd. His brow furrowed and his eyes squinted in thought.

"I feel like I'm forgetting something…"

It was then that he kicked both of his legs out, using his desk as a springboard to launch himself backwards and narrowly avoid a strike that threatened to cut him in two.


End file.
